Her hand shakes as she once again picks up that god forsaken tube. “Is this what’ll make me supposedly pretty?” she wonders as she sweeps the colourful dirt on her face. “Is this how I want people to see me?, Superficial and weak? succumbing to rubbing colourful dirt on my cheeks, and eye lids to be seen as pretty?”
She’s got a lot to offer. She’s funny. She’s smart. She’s nice. She’s easy to talk to. But does that matter when she sees herself as not pretty?
She picks up the skin toned cream and smooths it across her blemishes. Battle scars. It’s what they are. Don’t they usually say that you should wear them with pride? Not in this society. Not in this damn society where anorexia is what girls are wearing these days and the pressure to be thin or pretty is sinking into their pores.
“Can’t they love me for me? Look beyond my face and body and love me for everything that makes me, Well. Me?” she ponders as she puts down the brush and looks at herself in the mirror, and is met with a look of hate at the monster in the mirror. “Can’t they see me for me? and not just a shadow of what I could be?”
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